[He blinks up at Astarion, bewildered and off-kilter as the spell wanes. It's a dizzying encounter regardless of what direction the spell goes, and perhaps that's why he catches on only belatedly to what his packmate is trying to say. He'd been foolish, he realizes, or at the very least unprepared, for the thoughts he'd shown Astarion were blurred things: his mind leaping naturally from encounter to encounter as he'd wandered down the lane of recovered memories. Nothing coherent, nothing comprehensible— just a blur, and of course that wasn't what he'd meant.
But already Astarion is retreating. Not in body (oh, thank the gods for that grip, and he twists in it only to return it, his fingers squeezing tightly around Astarion's wrist), but in speech. I just and I might, his ears twitching down and his eyes darting about Leto's face— oh, he realizes belatedly, he thinks he's done something wrong.
And he hasn't. Not at all. It was no violation, not when there are so few memories that Leto would mind sharing— and not when it was Leto's magic that prompted it in the first place.]
I— wait.
[For there's a flutter of fretfulness in the pit of his stomach: the sensation of a chance slipping out of his fingertips.]
Simply . . . wait.
[For him to have a moment to allow his sluggish thoughts to gather. For him to breathe, slowly and clearly, and hush the tangle of anxiety rising within him, incomprehensible and bizarre. He runs his thumb against the inside of Astarion's wrist, quiet for a moment.]
I did not realize . . . I was thinking of lost memories, and the things I had recovered. But I would show you my companions. The things I felt, good and bad— and all the ways in which I felt their companionship.
Let me show you more than an inkling.
[Please, the word softly invoked as he stares up at his mate.
But he won't cast until he knows that Astarion is all right with it. That he wants it. Perhaps this was too much; perhaps he has spoiled this moment, fumbling in his own anxiety (and why hasn't that faded? Why is he still so jittery? Magic shouldn't be an issue, not anymore, not here and now— but oh, he'll figure it out later).]
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But already Astarion is retreating. Not in body (oh, thank the gods for that grip, and he twists in it only to return it, his fingers squeezing tightly around Astarion's wrist), but in speech. I just and I might, his ears twitching down and his eyes darting about Leto's face— oh, he realizes belatedly, he thinks he's done something wrong.
And he hasn't. Not at all. It was no violation, not when there are so few memories that Leto would mind sharing— and not when it was Leto's magic that prompted it in the first place.]
I— wait.
[For there's a flutter of fretfulness in the pit of his stomach: the sensation of a chance slipping out of his fingertips.]
Simply . . . wait.
[For him to have a moment to allow his sluggish thoughts to gather. For him to breathe, slowly and clearly, and hush the tangle of anxiety rising within him, incomprehensible and bizarre. He runs his thumb against the inside of Astarion's wrist, quiet for a moment.]
I did not realize . . . I was thinking of lost memories, and the things I had recovered. But I would show you my companions. The things I felt, good and bad— and all the ways in which I felt their companionship.
Let me show you more than an inkling.
[Please, the word softly invoked as he stares up at his mate.
But he won't cast until he knows that Astarion is all right with it. That he wants it. Perhaps this was too much; perhaps he has spoiled this moment, fumbling in his own anxiety (and why hasn't that faded? Why is he still so jittery? Magic shouldn't be an issue, not anymore, not here and now— but oh, he'll figure it out later).]